Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground
by Sunlight-Scars
Summary: Death and sex in the wasteland. Lone Wanderer/Charon. Eventually will be a series of Charon/Lone Wanderer/Gob vignettes.


Disclaimer: I don't own Fallout and I'm not making any money off of this. The title of the fic is from a White Stripes song, chapter title from a Kings of Leon song.

Chapter 1: The Immortals

The Super mutant was calling stupidly after her, dumb Super mutant shit like "I can smell your fear." It rounded a heavily damaged wall about a yard from where she crouched; completely overlooking her as it walked passed. She sprang agilely from her crouch and took a few long, graceful strides. She delivered two perfectly-aimed shotgun blasts to the Super mutant's head. It made a hell of a mess and left her with adrenaline coursing through her.

She turned to smile beamingly at Charon as he sauntered to her, swinging his shotgun over his shoulder to its place on his back. The two had just successfully wiped out a small army of the beasts. Knowing they were safe through the silence – Super mutants weren't the stealthiest of creatures, Stealth Boys or no – she grabbed the Ghoul the second he was close enough. She pulled him to her for a bruising, lusty kiss. He grunted approvingly against her lips, roughly grabbing her shoulders and slamming her back against the ruined half-wall. Her hands worked deftly and practiced at his leather, unbuckling his belts and pulling at laced fastenings; she had the only part of him she needed at the moment freed and awaiting her within seconds. Charon grinned wickedly as he worked at her leather pants.

A month in her employ and this had been perfected…and now it was a fucking race apparently. She looked at him with mock impatience as he finished unfastening her pants, slipping his fingers into the waistband of her panties and tugging both garments down her legs until the fabric pooled around her ankles, hindered by her bulky boots. She wrapped her arms around his neck and spread her feet as wide as she could. With a little careful maneuvering he positioned himself between her legs, sliding his hands under her thighs and lifting her hips even with his, pushing her against the wall, her legs locking tightly around his waist. With one well-positioned, strong thrust he buried himself to the hilt inside her.

There was no pretense to this, no uncertainty, no questions. It was as routine as the slaughter itself. It was the necessary release to how much they both got off on the hunt, the killing, staring fucking death in the face and telling it to fuck straight off. After a good fight, she was always wet for him, he was always hard for her. Their battlefield coupling was the most organic, primal, beautiful thing either of them had experienced and they both knew it forged a bond between them. The death and the sex, it was essential to both of them; they'd both spent too much time in the untamed wastes, with the violence and the slaughter. They would never escape it and neither of them could share it - either in action or in reminiscence – with anyone else. There was more than just Charon's contract binding them now.

Charon pounded into her wildly, hard and fast and without any rhythm, just instinctual movements desperately seeking release. Charon knew it didn't matter. His Mistress was the most unfussy woman he'd known. Sure, she had the things she especially liked, but everything he did seemed to get her off, no matter how clumsy, how apathetic, how unintentional. She screamed with every thrust, huskily shouting his name into the crumbling building, into the empty, ruined streets. As she clung tightly to his shoulders and began bucking frantically against him, nearing her release, his eyes darted across everything in his field of vision, his hearing straining for any enemy's tell-tale sounds through her pleasured howls. They appeared to be just as alone as they felt.

Then she screamed his name – the loudest volume her voice could reach, he was sure – and she clenched around him like a vice grip, tearing a powerful orgasm from his cock and a rough growl of "Mistress" from his throat. Her legs shook violently as he helped her disentangle herself from him and redress. She sank down to the debris-strewn floor, still leaning against the half-wall. She pulled a battered pack of cigarettes from a pocket of her leather bomber jacket and lit up. Charon tucked himself back into his pants, did up his belts, and sat next to her, pulling out his own cigarettes and following suit.

"You know what finally made me come? And fuck, I came hard. That was…definitely the best orgasm I've had in a while."

"What?" Charon humored her.

For some reason she loved extremely frank sex-talk, especially after sex. Though, he supposed, her forwardness contributed to the forging of their perfectly practiced routines. He was quick to learn because she was quick to teach.

"When you were looking around us for enemies, and I saw you listening for footsteps or voices even when I was making such a racket," she grinned. "I know you've always got my back, Charon. You _never _let your guard down, even when we're fucking. It's fucking sexy. And, it's kinda romantic."

Charon snorted, but he agreed with her assessment. He supposed that sleeping with one eye open was about as romantic as he got.


End file.
